


Brain Drain

by punkpasta



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Angst, Coping, DO NOT SMOKE AND DRIVE KIDS, Drug Use, Edgy, Emo, Gen, PTSD, Trauma, Underage Drinking, aka my own bad coping skills, drunk driving kind of, relationships arent really the point theyre just mentioned mostly, richie tozier x sadness and angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-17 10:42:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12363951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkpasta/pseuds/punkpasta
Summary: He remembered buying the cassette. It was maybe April or May of 1989- spring. Before. He hated that giant line through his life, dividing Before from After. It’s not like things were hunky dory in the before time, he thought, but you can see things go downhill in the After.





	1. Chapter 1

“Beep beep, Richie. Beep beep.” he whispered to himself, leaning back into the seat of his car. He’d gotten the corolla used from his parents, and it served as an impromptu apartment, cluttered with fast food wrappers and empty bottles half filled with cigarette butts. 

Usually, he parked in his parent’s garage. It was somewhat comforting to be close to the house he grew up in- but safer to be in his car. 

Tonight, Paul Bunyan stared at him through the windshield. “Hey hey, bud, what are you up to these days? Whackin the old axe at little boys much? Ch-” Richie cut himself off, for once feeling like the car was too full for any more words. He was alone. Nobody to impress, and nobody to convince. He took a long swallow from the beer in his hand. 

Richie looked at Paul for a while longer, almost waiting for him to shudder to life. Waiting for Derry to try to kill him again. 

“Not about to win this staring contest.” He quickly looked away from the plastic behemoth, throwing the car into gear. The darkness had become kind of close, he thought, sort of like it was solid. The smallness inside his car was usually comforting. He knew where the walls were. It Couldn’t expand away from him like rooms used to- like the times when the spaces between him and his friends stretched out. But sometimes it felt too small, almost like a pipe barely tall enough for his twelve year old self. He’d only grown a few inches in the past four years, but it was enough.. 

“Kinda like your mom’s vagina” the disjointed joke surfaced, free of context, and Richie felt the need to say something else. Anything else, actually. 

He punched the radio before actually moving the car, and the Ramones shouted out of his tinny speakers. As Joey’s voice echoed behind him (zero zero, ufo), he suddenly remembered buying the cassette. It was maybe April or May of 1989- spring. Before. He hated that giant line through his life, dividing Before from After. It’s not like things were hunky dory in the before time, he thought, but you can see things go downhill faster than Ben used to inhale twinkies. He’d had that fucking tape in his walkman the day of the famous Ben Hanscomb Twinkie Incident. That was one of those days that didn’t fit into a before or after- September of 1989. The days that teetered on the edge of the giant gash in Richie’s timeline.

He pulled out of his haphazard parking spot and began steering himself toward the highway. Once the car got moving, he cranked his window down and steered with his elbows, struggling to light a clumsily rolled joint. Bev usually rolled while he cracked off some good ones, and his own skills left a lot to be desired. 

Richie knew that driving was a real Rich Richie idea at this point. Especially on the highway, where he’d throw the dilapidated corolla into high gear and fly towards Bangor, looping around an exit ramp to careen back towards Derry. Something about the return trip made him drive slower each time. 

Usually, he did that alone. If Bev or anyone else was in the car, he’d shift out to the good ol dirt n gravel country roads, yessiree, and slide into a twangy voice as he looped around the space that Derry hadnt yet taken up. 

“Nothing like careening along with no fear of death, am I right? Nothing like cruising at 95 and knowing that nothing happens when you die, so you’d better get some chucks while you can, right?” Richie said this to noone as he abruptly shot left away from the highway. He ended up pulling to a stop behind the ancient grocery store a block below Beverly’s house. There wasn’t a point in calling her- she’d be up in her room getting busy. 

“Hey, maybe I’ll just shimmy up the drainpipe and get some hot action shots of Bill, ruh-ruh-ruh-railing Buh-Buh-Buh-Bev. All new Trashmouth Feature Flick, fuh-fuh-fuh-huck-king the puh-puh-pain awah-hay, starring little big Bill and carpets-match-the-drapes Bevvie, guh-gah-run-teed fbi watchlist satisfaction.” Richie took another hit. Smoke collected under the windows he’d rolled back up as soon as he came to a stop. He reclined his seat, staring up at the yellowing felty ceiling. 

“I could go wake up Stanny the manny but he’s not a fan of trashed-mouth. I could get Eddie spaghetti but the babe needs beauty sleep. I could fall asleep in this parking lot and have a night terrors tea party. Or I could actually climb up Beverly’s drainpipe and sleep on her carpet.” he’s turned the radio off so Joey Ramone isn’t reminding him about the pieces that aren’t being picked up and the diseases that aren’t being fixed. His corolla sidled up the dead-end side street (“God, just like my life” He says, and nobody laughs) beside Beverly’s building. He zippered his ragged gray-black hoodie and tumbled gracelessly out of the driver’s seat, locking the doors behind him, shoving the key deep into his jeans pocket. Richie rubbed his hands together against the chill.

“Thank fuck Bev lives on the first floor” he grunts, his fingers turning white as he grips the rusted out fire escape. If there was an actual fire, he thinks, people would be better off getting roasted to medium rare than trying to race down the tetanus-ridden mess he was trying to climb. 

He paused on the first solid step, a few feet below Beverly’s wide bedroom window. The lights were off, and no music leaked out. Probably asleep, Richie thought, trying not to imagine Bill and Beverly tangled together under the green blanket she’d had since childhood. 

Without thinking, he pushed himself forward and tipped off his step, falling the ten feet to the grass below. Richie tucked and rolled, ending up just above the sidewalk staring at the stars. 

Mentally, he checked for injuries. Nothing. He laid there, feeling the wetness of the grass leak into his clothes, and suddenly remembered. 

~~

When they rounded the corner, everyone stopped short for a second. The clown suit morphed into a black dress, topped by a long, twisted face, rows of teeth prised open around Stan’s face. Panic sunk into them, and the five losers still standing raced in with abandon. The thing- It- detached from Stan, Its teeth leaving blood that trickled down into Stan’s ears. The next thing Richie remembered was the screaming as he, Eddie, and Mike knelt around Stan. Each tried and failed to calm him as he shrieked that they had left him, let him be taken, almost killed, et cetera. Eddie had his good arm behind Stan’s head, stopping it from slamming into the slimy concrete wall. Nothing was stopping Stan’s adrenaline-fueled panic. Tears mixed with the blood leaking from around his face. 

Richie acted on instinct alone. Careful to avoid the puncture wounds around his face, he caught curls in each hand and squared himself in front of Stan. 

It wasn’t a passionate kiss, or even a particularly good one. In truth, Rchie’s mouth just touched Stan’s. But it was definitely a kiss, and when Richie fell away Stan was silent. His eyes had widened like headlights, and his mouth was still slightly open. Bill stood over them, with Eddie on Stan’s right and Mike on his left. Ben knelt between Richie and Mike, his face sharing the same slightly aghast look as the others. 

“Well, you were right. She wasn’t hot.” Richie stammered, realizing he was straddling Stan’s knees and falling back again, scrambling to his feet. He felt the sewer water- gray water, basically just piss and shit- soaking into his clothes. Cold. every part of him was cold except the palms of his hands where he’d gripped Stan’s head and his lips, which were halfway between his usual lopsided grin and an awkward grimace. 

Stan hadn’t moved. He’d stopped thrashing and screaming, but hadn’t moved to get up. It was Mike who started first, he had been halfway between kneeling and standing and he made the rest of the trip up while grabbing Stan by the arm. 

He didn’t actually say anything but he had a look. A “let’s just move on and get to the point” look. 

And they did. 


	2. Chapter 2

He opened his eyes. His jacket had ridden up around his waist and a stripe of pale skin almost glowed in the darkness. 

“What if I just went and slept in the clubhouse again?” Richie knew he wouldn’t and he couldn’t. Not since Ben had left town. That was the last time any of them had been in the clubhouse, all seven, barely fitting. Saying goodbye. Their legs had tangled together and Eddie sat on top of the milk crate of supplies they kept in there. 

The clubhouse had been all of theirs but it had been Ben’s, really, he’d designed it and showed them how to make it and he’d been the first one to go in. Before he had a car, Richie had slept in the clubhouse, bringing more supplies from home. He’d gotten the car not long before Ben left. His childhood blankets were still down there, along with old bottles and a few spare t shirts and a shoebox of mementos. All seven had decided to put things in the box, things Richie didn’t want to think about, things from deep inside the chasm that was the wet hot american summer of ‘89. 

When his arm had healed, Eddie had actually put his entire cast in the box, diagonally. The sewer map and the old photo films were curled up inside the plaster tube, surrounded by scattered childhood crap, the things that mattered to seventh graders. Richie’s old broken glasses were in the box, along with the pocket that the late great Patrick Hockstetter had ripped off his old red and orange hawaiian shirt. 

Richie started to sit up, his hair flopping over his face and his glasses crooked off his ear. Eddie. Eddie’s cast, Eddie’s broken arm, Eddie’s house. He managed to stand and wobbled to the car, flopping through the door. Most of his body landed on the driver’s seat- enough that he could swing the door shut behind him. 

It took a while for him to get upright, and longer for him to actually start driving. He’d finished the joint from earlier by the time he got to eddie’s corner, and he sat three houses down with a cigarette. 

He tipped his head back and let smoke out of his nose, remembering the night he’d come up with Smokestacks. The nickname’s debut was not an unpleasant memory- but not the best one. It was Beverly- god, of course it was- and she had just finished vomiting over someone’s porch in the outskirts of Bangor. Maybe it was the alcohol and maybe it was the distance, but Richie always felt closer to being okay when he was somewhere unfamiliar- somewhere that wasn’t Derry. 

It was warm, maybe May or June- only seven or eight months ago. Beverly wiped her mouth and immediately lit two cigarettes, holding them both in the side of her mouth. 

“Real lit, Smokestacks,” Richie had said as she shoved the cigarette carton back into her bra. She scowled. “Get it? Cuz you’re smoking like crazy, like double, and you’re stacked? And you keep them in your tits? It’s funny.” he continued, talking more to the porch railing than to his friend. She blew smoke in his face. 

Richie blinked, and the smoke cloud became his own. He was back to his hazy grimy old sedan. He shoved his glasses up his nose with his free hand. It’s getting late, he thought, leaning the seat back just a little. Too late to bother Eddie. 

The first time Richie had appeared uninvited at the Kaspbrak family funny farm in the After, he’d thrown pebbles at Eddie’s window until the window creaked open and through the screen, Richie could see Eddie’s thin face hissing about shattered glass. 

He’d come downstairs and brought Richie to the backyard. Eddie’s arm had healed, but it still lay across his chest like it was in a cast. Richie tentatively let one arm fall open as he laid back in the grass. 

Eddie leaned back until he was horizontal, arm still bent over his ribs. His head rested just above Richie’s elbow. 

Richie had stopped breathing. He held his body still, waiting for Eddie to realize that he was laying on Richie’s arm. His arm. His skinny, pale arm was under Eddie’s head and he could smell the other boy’s detergent and his shampoo and jesus christ, he was gonna fuck this up. 

For once, both of them were quiet. Both were thinking the same thing- in different words, but the same general concepts. How normal it felt, and how strange, and how right. Two boys, laying in the grass like normal kids, touching, nervous, almost giddy and yet silent. Maybe all over maine, all over america, all over the world, there were pairs of boys laying on back lawns. But, Richie thought, none of them were Eddie. And none of them were him, too. 

Eddie was thinking how strange it was. He was too scared to move off Richie’s arm. It was normal, probably, to rest your head on your friends arm. Normal to feel his body heat. Normal to know he was smelling your detergent and hand sanitizer. What wasn’t supposed to happen was the quiet feeling under his ribs. Almost like asthma, but good. What wasn’t normal was the faint residual fear that he would look over at Richie and see- he wasn’t sure which was worse, seeing Richie looking back at him and feeling the warmness spread through him and prod at the things he’d hidden away or seeing the leper there, with his same old offer. Fifteen cents for overtime. Eddie breathed slow. It’s okay, he thought, it’s just Rich. It’s just trashmouth, just his friend Richie. Normal. 

Richie had turned his head by fractions, trying to look at Eddie. He could see the other boy’s nose, and then the curve of his eyelashes and his lips. All Richie wanted to do was hold him, chaste, for now. Eddie was fighting a losing battle, wanting to look at the other boy and afraid to. 

He had looked. Fuck. The second of eye contact, through thick glasses, was enough. Richie had gently shifted Eddie closer to him, so his head rested against Richie’s chest. Eddie had closed his eyes, silently cursing himself, but breathing easier. They had stayed on the lawn for a long time, almost until dawn, not quite asleep. 

This time, Richie had a car. He’d brought Eddie into the car before, but he stopped himself before those memories could sneak in. They were friends, normal friends, nothing more. He leaned into his seat, reaching behind it and pulling the old blanket from the backseat over him. In the morning, he’d talk to Eddie. In the morning. 

Richie dropped the cigarette butt into the slurpee cup filled with the damp sugared ends of the past month’s lung-fuckers and roaches. He curled up, facing the empty passenger seat, wrapping himself in the blanket. He drifted off, settling into the worn down upholstery. His glasses slipped down his face, coming to rest in the blanket folds over his knee. 

He dreamed about his thirteenth birthday party. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :/

**Author's Note:**

> working on chapter two which will probably be more gay


End file.
